by Jeff Spence
And then he fell asleep.
THIRTY-ONE
"Telephone for you, Dr. Ahud."
Dr. Avni Ahud moved from the stack of filing cabinets he had been searching through, back toward his desk. His office was equipped with a relatively new Mac, but he seldom used it for more than emails, word processing and watching press releases put out by the various departments of the Authority. He preferred old-school methods: alphabetisation by hand, paper files, tight steel locks on loud, metal filing cabinets, and a hidden bottle of something decent in a lower desk drawer for after-hours work sessions. A clean tumbler always sat at the edge of the big desk, the implications of its presence ignored by those around him. He liked a drink, but never before five in the afternoon, and he never allowed it to affect his work. This, too, was an old-school way of doing things. In fact, the inner life of the man was perfectly suited to the job with which it had been paired for the whole of his adult life: the moral collection and preservation of important antiquities. He could never look quite straight at technology. He preferred things that he could open up, look at the guts and understand what was going on in there. There were rare exceptions, and those usually thrust upon him by the relentless progress of the world around him. — the soft sound of a harp rang out from his pocket — he pulled out his phone.
"Hello, this is Avni Ahud."
"Hello, Dr. Ahud, my name is Ben Gela, I'm Professor of Levant Studies for a small university in Indiana."
"Yes, Dr. Gela, how may I help you?"
"I think we can help each other sir. At least I hope we can."
"Yes?" Ahud replied, his eyelids drooping slightly in anticipation of another pitch that he bet would promise the caller a lot more than it would the museum.
"Do you know a man by the name of Leonard Kantor?"
"Gutsy, calling them." Marina shook her head.
"I had to. It's been bothering me since we landed in Tel Aviv. Kantor said that he represented the IAA, or at least that they had a close working relationship, but how do we really know that?"
"We don't know it's not true, either. Could be the kind of relationship that the guy you contacted didn’t want public. You might have just told Kantor where we're going."
"I may have, but I don't think so. It was something you said before, when we were talking about the authenticity of the Copper Scroll. Something about a big lie being a good lie?"
“Yeah,” she nodded, “A whopper is easier to sell sometimes than a little lie. Every woman with any dating experience at all knows that…” a grin and a poke at Ben’s ribs, “but I don't think anyone knows why."
"Trust me, somebody somewhere is working on it." He smiled back at her. The situation had needed a little levity. "Anyway, it was that saying that got me thinking. Bass told me that he was working alongside Columbia. It just happens that I have a friend there, so I checked up on it. He had been lying to build up his own credibility, make himself seem more legitimate."
"And you think Kantor is doing the same?"
"I've been around a lot of serious archeologists, the hard-core types that spend months at a time in the pounding sun in the hopes of finding a few academically valuable items in a lifetime — some never find one — and these guys don't play. They're almost religious about the things they find. It is like worshipping the whole process, complete with sectarian in-fighting.”
"You don't think the odd trinket just falls into a pocket here and there?"
"I think it happens far less often that one would imagine. Far less likely than opportunity allows for, that’s for sure. It’s not a random slice of the population out there, it's an army of people who border on fanaticism for finding — and publicising — the next King Tut's Tomb, or Dead Sea cave, or Sutton Hu hoard. Training takes decades, and a lot of that spent on one’s belly in the dust and sun, cracking fingernails and drying out skin, usually for nothing but the odd bit of pottery or scrap of metal. It’s a hot, physically demanding, often fruitless pursuit. A lot of investment for what almost amounts to a chance at winning a lottery. The prize is becoming one of the famous discoverers of something or other. The fame and status is a big part of the appeal… to keep something like this secret would give most of them high blood pressure, or worse. The guys I know could never keep something like this from the public eye, even for millions.”
"And if Kantor knows just one of these guys who is crooked enough for that…?”
"Then let's hope it's not the one I called."
They sat on a bench outside the airpot rental car office in Tel Aviv, waiting for their vehicle to arrive. It pulled up moments later, a red convertible made by Qoros. Marina had never heard of it, but rightly assumed it to be an Israeli-made car. It was bright, easy to spot, and no-doubt very familiar to anyone local who was looking for one.
"Could you be a little more obvious?" Marina smiled, only half-jokingly, "I'll feel like my maiden aunt in a midlife crisis in this thing… if I had a maiden aunt."
"Don't worry," Ben grinned back, "That's the whole idea." They got into the car, top-down, and drove the airport loop through to the long-term car park. It was nice to have the wind in their hair and the sun on their shoulders even if it was just for a few minutes. It was a brief catharsis that they both needed and their spirits were lifted. Ben pulled into an empty stall and went to the kiosk for a ticket. From there they hopped a bus and were on the road to Jerusalem within half an hour.
"You think they'll fall for it?"
"The best I can figure is that someone is monitoring my credit card. If they are, then they'll know we rented a car. They might even be able to find out which car. I'm hoping they do. With them on the lookout for a red convertible, we should be able to slip in under the radar — as long as we keep using the cash."
"Will there be a tour to Masada then?"
"There are definitely tours. We'll just have to time it right so that we aren't there alone too long."
The ride into Jerusalem was uneventful. They'd missed the first shuttle by a dozen yards, but another came along in a few minutes. Once on board, they could feel the tension drain from their bodies. For the first time in several days they felt as if they were truly off of the grid, moving in one place while their hunters were looking in another.
As the bus passed through the fields, mysterious rugged mountains across the horizon, Ben thought about the life of an average Israeli in the area, constantly aware that a rocket might streak across the sky and explode in a neighbourhood, a school, a workplace. The average Palestinian, too, never knew when such an attack might bring the wrath of the Israeli army upon them, guns and tanks and planes against their makeshift rabble of freedom fighters — or terrorists, depending on who one asked.
Ben had been in danger only for a few days and he was sure it had taken a year from his life. He couldn't imagine a lifetime of that kind of stress. Perhaps a person just got used to it. Perhaps not. Perhaps people in this region, even if they weren't killed directly by violence, still died young, victims of the stress of a precarious life.
In Jerusalem they didn't even have to leave the bus station to find a suitable tour. Banners, posters, signs, and hawkers lined the lobby and the entrance area. Ben had the money out to pay one of them when something caught his eye and he had another idea.
"Follow me for a minute. I have an idea and your pretty face definitely won't hurt my chances."
"Why sir," she said, putting on a southern accent and toying with her shirt, "I'll loosen a button or two and be right behind you."
Ben turned and eyed the button.
"You'd best recognise a joke when you hear one, Professor Gela, or this belle might blacken your eye."
He grinned and she followed him over to the parking lot where two young men sat on motorcycles, smoking and chatting with a pretty parking attendant.
"Excuse me," Ben called as he and Marina approached them, "Those are nice bikes." They weren't, particularly, but they were in decent shape and had high suspensions, like hybrid rac
ing bikes. "I've seen this kind of thing in the Dakar rally." The young men were suspicious, but couldn't suppress proud smiles as they pictured themselves bounding over the dunes of the world's most famous cross-country race.
"Look," he said, leaning in a little, "My fiancé and I are here for a little pre-wedding honeymoon, and we don't really want to be on one of these tours with the over-tired tourist set on an old bus. Any chance we could rent one of these things for a day?"
"Two of them," Marina chimed in, "Unless you're planning on riding behind me."
The two young men looked at each other, shaking their heads, until the wad of cash Ben pulled from his front pocket caught both of their gazes and the heads slowed to stillness.
"How much would it be… for both bikes… one day?"
Each looked to the other.
"How do we know you'll bring them back?"
"And how do we know you won't wreck them? Driving in Jerusalem is not easy, you know, especially on one of these. You ever drive here before?"
"Good point," Marina nodded, "How about we leave you extra cash — a lot extra, to cover anything that might go wrong — and then when we bring the bikes back, you keep the rental fee and we get the deposit back."
They looked at each other again, exchanging almost imperceptible nods.
"Two thousand deposit," one said.
"Each!" the other added.
"And the fee then?" Ben asked.
"Two hundred for the day."
"Each!"
"Make it and even three hundred rental, for the two of them together, and three thousand deposit, total, and you have a deal." Marina held out her hand.
One of the young men took it and pumped it twice.
"Deal!" the two said together.
They exchanged emails and got the phone numbers of the young men, and a moment later Ben was revving along, weaving between the jostling vehicles of Jerusalem, trying to keep up to Marina as she darted to and fro between the bumpers and fenders, honking the bike's horn just as often and avidly as those drivers around them.
Greg Bass sat in the back of the luxury sedan and watched them go. He didn't attempt to chase them — would have been futile anyway, in a car, in this traffic, trying to keep up with the speeding bikes — and besides, he knew where they were going. He had watched them scan the tour signs and even strike a deal with one of them before changing their minds and moving off toward the men on the motorcycles. Another deal broken, Dr. Gela, he thought to himself, Dangerous habit, my friend.
It was a smart move, he had to give them that. The rental car a little too obvious maybe, but Kantor would fall for it: the American tourists in their gaudy red convertible. It played to the stereotype, and the Israeli would take the bait, more than likely. Then the tour bus. Risky, but only if the rental ruse flopped. And what were the chances of that? Even then, someone looking for American tourists on a tour bus to Qumran or Masada? The vehicles were full of them. Hiding in plain sight? It might have worked. Then renting the bikes, off the grid — that was their best move yet. It could definitely have worked, even against him.
But it hadn't.
Bass had seen them at the airport in Tel Aviv and almost didn't believe his eyes. First class had emptied first, of course. He and his PA had moved through the concourse smoothly enough, but he hadn't liked the coffee on the plane and thought he had indulge in a decent cup before setting out for Jerusalem and meeting the bulk of his crew, to take the edge off of the jet lag and perk himself up a bit. He finished his coffee as soon as it had cooled a bit. His PA called in to make sure their ride knew they had cleared customs, and they strode out of the main doors to where they knew the driver would be waiting.
And there they were: Ben Gela and Marina Saalik, as if they'd been waiting there for him to arrive.
Bass motioned for his driver to wait, and told his PA to get a cab to their hotel and set everything up — she had a company credit card, and always maintained a fold of cash for corporate incidentals. He then fell in a short distance behind Ben and Marina as they walked. He cursed that he didn't have his tactical crew with him; the driver wouldn't be any help and Bass couldn't handle the two of them by himself — especially in one of the most secure airports in the world. Within sight of where he stood, there were at least seven armed men and women, each of them highly-trained and reasonably alert. A scene was the last thing he wanted.
So he followed them through to the rental agency. He stood and watched as Ben rented a car and they waited for it. When it arrived, Bass shook his head at their taste, especially when they were trying to lie low. Didn't seem a bright move for two apparently intelligent people.
He jogged back to his waiting driver, now arguing with the parking warden who was waving him onward and refusing the bills the driver held out by way of a tip, to allow for a moment or two more. As Bass ran up, the car began to creep forward, the warden almost yelling at them to move on, and Bass jumped in the back door, giving the driver a couple of pats on the shoulder.
"Good job. Move ahead slowly and keep an eye on the rental car driveway. We're looking for a red cabriolet… Qoros I think. When you see it, follow it, but keep back. I don't want to be seen."
The man nodded and the car moved slowly along the drive. "We can pull into the short term here, and see them pull out from the drive," he pointed, "right there. When they come out, we can leave a good distance behind."
"Good. Do it."
They pulled in and waited. When the car emerged, they pulled out after it, keeping three to four cars between them at all times. The convertible was easy to spot, but the dark sedan blended in with so many others like it; Bass knew he was virtually invisible so far.
Then the convertible did something strange. It signalled left, exited the highway ramp, and returned to the airport.
Forget something? Bass asked the distant duo.
Then they entered the long term parking and he couldn't help but let a smile lighten his face. "Very good, Ben," he said softly, "My faith in you is restored."
"Pardon sir?"
"Nothing. Pull back around into the short-term parking. Stay ready to go. Let me out here."
"Yes sir."
Bass hopped out and moved up the sidewalk toward the terminal. He was enjoying himself: the cloak and dagger suited his taste for adrenaline-rich pastimes. He stopped at the shuttle depot and casually peeked out from behind a post. He watched as Ben and Marina got out of the car, put the ticket on the dash, and moved off toward the bus stop for the shuttle to Jerusalem. Toward him.
There was nowhere to flee. The sidewalk was open to their view now and they would notice him if he moved back toward the car. The route to the terminal would take him right past them. The thick post would keep him safe for a moment or two, but once they arrived at the stop, it would be much too obvious to keep the thing between them, if it were even possible… unless they stayed right beside each other, one or the other would be able to see him.
"You coming sir?"
He turned around. The door to the shuttle was open and the driver looked down at him. He’d spoken English. Did he really look that obviously like an American? Damn. No way he was going to blend in.
The driver gestured forward. "Gotta go now, but there's another shuttle in a few minutes."
"Yes," he said, climbing the steps and handing a crisp hundred-dollar-bill to the driver, “I’m coming. I hope this is okay, didn't have time to change my money yet. That will get me to Jerusalem?”
"Yes," the man smiled, "that will do."
Bass took a seat with his back toward the approaching couple as the bus pulled out from the waiting area. He took out his cell. "I'm on the shuttle. Pick me up at the bus depot in Jerusalem — probably the main terminal. Stay close, but not too obvious. I’ll call you." Then he closed his eyes and drew in a long, deep breath. He wasn't a particularly religious man, but another break or two like that might change his mind.
THIRTY-TWO
There is a little side road
, about twenty minutes east of Jerusalem on Highway One. The ground is rough there, and a large boulder, an outcropping really, about twice the size of a gravel truck, is only a few car lengths from the highway.
Greg Bass sat there, reading an online newspaper and sipping from a cool glass bottle of Coke while he waited. His driver sat at attention, his eyes never leaving the surface of the highway. For half an hour they waited. Then half an hour more.
Bass looked up from his tablet. He should have seen them by now, by his estimation, even if the tangle of Jerusalem streets and alleys had held them up a little. On the bikes, and seemingly in a hurry, they should have passed by already.
But there was another possibility.
This was the best way to Masada, the most popular and obvious way, but there was another option. Highway 31 ran around to the south of the fortress, through the pass at the far end of the Dead Sea. If they were confident that they had fooled anyone trying to follow them, then this was the most likely route. If they weren’t, though, or if they were being cautious even in their confidence, then they might have invested the additional time in taking the southern route. If they had taken that one, even with traffic delays and any mistakes the newcomers might make, it was possible that they could be approaching the ruins even now. Or it might be as simple as them having stopped for a bite to eat.
Damn, he thought, too many ifs. His job required him to make decisions all the time, in many different circumstances, but the ones he hated most were those decisions for which he lacked the necessary information. In effect, it required a guess. He had just decided to give it five more minutes, when a particular whine rose up into his hearing and two hybrid motorcycles sped by.
"Go."
The driver pulled out immediately and accelerated hard until he had matched their speed, but was still a good mile behind. He then paced them, following the road eastward to where the name changed to Highway 90 and it dove southward, in a long straightaway toward the Dead Sea. The cycles were going hard and the big sedan was roaring to keep up until, seemingly in a moment, the speed of the bikes plummeted and the car rode up hard behind them.